Never look away
by Amber1701
Summary: NEW SERIES - What made Alex Manes the man he is today? A little idea I had about his injury in Iraq and his homecoming, and everything in between. Follows the events described in the first 6 episodes, but may veer away as the season progresses.
1. Chapter 1

February 21, 2018

Airman First Class Alex Manes loaded into the second row of seats in the armored carrier along with Airman Tony Belacci. Senior Airman Phil Juarez rode up front with their Army driver, who they only knew as 'Sticks'. The guy's chest patch said Stevens, but damned if he'd ever heard anyone mention his first name. Their tools and equipment were crated and riding in the back. Alex had checked every wrench and socket himself. He'd done it so many times, he could do it in his sleep. Matter of fact, he probably had, at some point over the last six and a half years.

He flipped his sun shade down over the rear window and glared out at the sandy, sun-baked landscape. F-ing desert. He'd spent the better part of the last decade with a dry mouth, cracked hands and a perma-tan. When his father had spoken of the glorious family tradition of joining the Air Force, Alex had always assumed that would mean flying above the clouds in a jet, not repetitively fixing the broken-ass pieces of crap.

But that dream had died a long time ago, shot down by a crappy eye exam. And that sort of thing wasn't a test you could study for. Just another defect that made him less than a man in his family's eyes - not that he cared anymore. This place had a way of cutting out the bullshit in your life, like no other experience could. He'd lost friends out in the sand, brothers-in-arms that were taken brutally and without rhyme or reason. Doing the job and staying alive were the only things that really mattered here. All the rest of it was just fluff and nonsense.

"Manes, you pack the extra landing gear module?"

Alex's head snapped up at his commander's sharp voice.

"Yes sir, along with the reinforced wing supports."

"Good." Juarez shuffled through the grainy black and white photos on his lap again. "Looks like the bird took a hard landing, but no major damage visible from the air."

A Raven UAV was down and stranded on the other side of Erbil. While the city was currently controlled by Iraqi national forces, the base's commander didn't want US technology sitting around on the ground for just anyone to take and sell. The Raven was one of the bigger UAVs, probably close to a million dollars of high tech metal, plastic and circuitry. Losing one would hamper Coalition efforts in the region for months. Their unit's mission was to repair if possible, destroy if unsalvageable.

Alex nodded and returned to watching out the window, always looking for anything that seemed off. Basic training felt like a million years ago, but his instructor's warning to always be alert was permanently with him.

The city was quiet, but a few people still walked with purpose down the streets, buying and selling, going to their jobs in offices or stores, kids on their way to community schools that had reopened after the fighting ceased. The buildings and streets showed scars from the worst of the conflict. Some brick facades had completely collapsed, turning sidewalks into piles of rubble. The city roadways were like the surface of the moon – pock marked by grenade explosions and vehicle fires. In some places, reconstruction had started, but many of the glass store fronts were still boarded up with a jumble of plywood and discarded materials from other destroyed buildings.

It looked like a war zone.

Alex laughed humorlessly at his own joke and reached down for his water bottle. The liquid was warm, as ever, but a soldier had to keep hydrating. Electrolyte balance was nothing to joke about.

The vehicle turned out of the city onto a four lane highway that was heavily used by military transport and supply trucks. The surface had been repaired, but some spots were still bumpy. On the outskirts of the northern suburb, they passed a school with a sports field that was probably once covered in astroturf, but had now been reclaimed by the blowing desert sand. The empty metal bleachers glinted in the morning sun and Alex squinted.

Memories of playing soccer on a field not unlike that one hit him out of nowhere. God, how long had it been since he was in high school? The lines on his face and the aches in his body told him it had been a long while. But sometimes, when he first woke up and the fog of sleep and exhaustion hadn't quite left his head, it felt like yesterday.

Things weren't any better, then. Not really. The emotional stress of living in that town was not unlike the feelings of physical stress he dealt with everyday in Iraq. They both took their toll on him. But there was something about the constant life and death struggle here that was almost easier to handle.

Back home, he'd been a target because of who he was and how he was. His different-ness was not his choice, but that didn't matter to some of those around him. He was judged for something out of his control. In this place, people wanted to kill him for the flag on his shoulder. And that had nothing to do with Alex, as a person. They were the same, but they were so very different.

The scent of freshly cut wood tingled in his nose as they passed a building under re-construction. One corner of the structure was a gaping hole, likely left when a grenade was tossed onto the Juliet balcony and detonated against the brick. Two dark haired men were hard at work, putting together rickety scaffolding so that they could reach to repair the damage. One was talking on his cell phone, absentmindedly holding a warped 2x4 while the other nailed it into place.

His chest ached at the pitchy wood smell and Alex rubbed a fist along his sternum. His father said that idle hands were the devil's playthings, so when he was off duty he was always busy. Whether it was maintaining his truck or repairing things around the house that didn't really need fixing, Master Sergeant Manes was never idle. Their porch could probably withstand a hurricane, it was so solidly built. The workshop out back had always smelled like wood or paint, solvent or motor oil.

The ache intensified when he realized he'd stumbled into forbidden territory. He never let himself think of that place. Never. The 8x10 building had played witness to both the best and worst moments of Alex's life. And once he started down the path of remembering, he couldn't block that face from his mind.

Despite the dry, hot air, his eyes watered as he stared out at the beige beyond his window - sand and building, rock and sky blurring until he couldn't distinguish features.

His trick of reciting maintenance schedules usually worked to block out that face, but he was having difficulty remembering how to start. He couldn't see the words in his head, because those damn curls were in his eyes. And they were soft, he recalled; wild and soft and they felt so good between his fingers.

How could that face be so clear to him after all the years and distance? It was as real and precise as his own reflection in a mirror. And it haunted him when he closed his eyes, but he couldn't let go of it, couldn't push it away. That face and those curls and the stupid smirk below them were his reasons to keep going – to keep doing the work and staying alive. But while the face was always there, Alex never let himself think of it directly. That was too hard, too much. So the foggy feeling was all he could allow himself. The lurch in his heart at the near miss made him breathe a little harder. No, he couldn't go down that road.

Alex blinked and focused on the landscape passing him by. The ridge off to the west was warming up as the sun hit it with full force, turning the rocks from grey to beige to a rusty red. Actually, he thought with a half-smile, the scenery was not unlike New Mexico. Deserts a world apart were still both deserts, after all. And he wondered if maybe that face was looking at the sunrise too, watching the colors of the rocks change and the night time chill burn off in a shimmering of light. Maybe he was, and maybe he was remembering similar things in a foggy way to protect his own heart, too. And didn't that make Alex feel a little less alone in this godforsaken place.

The explosion came without warning, the IED hidden in a burned out car wreck on the side of the highway. Upon hearing it, the scaffold builders back along the highway walked to a waiting car and drove off, their spotting jobs complete.

The humvee landed on its roof, the passenger side completely shredded. Alex was somewhat shielded, sitting behind the driver's seat on the opposite side of the vehicle, but shrapnel was an evil thing. It could never really be avoided. And after the wreck stopped rocking in place, there was only silence and the sound of the hot wind blowing across the pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

February 27, 2018

It's a wonder the entire town didn't explode when he heard the news. It was just a regular Tuesday at the grocery store, picking up a few things for his trailer, like coffee cream, when Michael felt his heart stop.

"Grace! Did you hear about that poor Manes boy?"

The bored housewives were conducting town gossip by the yogurt, as per usual. Normally he tuned them out, but he still hadn't grasped how to keep his ears from pricking up when that name was mentioned. No one ever gossiped about Alex anymore though, most preferring to talk with pride about his three brothers instead.

"Yes. Oh, Maureen mentioned it yesterday. It's so sad, really, him being the youngest and all. You'd think the older boys would be in more danger, flying as they do. But I guess you can't predict war."

A queasy feeling started in his gut as they talked about the only Manes boy that meant anything to him – one of only three people in the world he cared about, really. He waited, tense and shivering, to hear any more about Alex.

"His father is so strong, dealing with that stress and the responsibility of his command."

The first woman held her hands against her chest, seemingly overcome with sympathy for the Master Sergeant.

"I saw him at church on Sunday, you know. He said he'd been flown back to the US, but that he likely wouldn't make it. The injuries were just too severe."

The other woman shook her head and clucked with her tongue over the unfairness of the world.

The pain in Michael's chest intensified until he could not move or breathe. His grief was so complete in that moment, the air seemed to warp around him. The two women felt a chill in the air and moved down the aisle, continuing their chatter and unaware of the storm brewing inside him.

Finally alone, he let go of the iron control he had on his powers. His fists gripped the handles of the cooler with such force, the glass shook in its frame and the milk containers bounced on their shelves. His hold tightened, harder and harder around the metal, bending it and leaving the imprints of his fingers. And then finally, the jugs and doors couldn't take the stress and shattered all at once, flooding the back of the store with milk and broken glass.

Shards skipped over his forearms and cheek bones, leaving trails of weeping red, but he didn't notice. No superficial wound could cut through the all-encompassing pain and loss he felt. But the cold milk soaking through his jeans reminded him of where he was and what he'd just done.

He made a quick exit, throwing his truck into gear and tearing out of the parking lot. He was surprised he could see through the tears that he couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. But he'd fled to the ranch and his trailer so many times, maybe driving the dusty road was muscle memory now. Or maybe he just moved the truck with his mind sometimes, he wasn't sure.

He could see the tall ranch gate and sign up ahead, but decided to keep driving past the trailer and out into the desert. Being cooped up in that little metal can on wheels likely wasn't safe right now, considering. He probably shouldn't be near anything his grey matter could turn into a projectile.

When he was far enough away from anything and anyone he might hurt, Michael got out of the truck, grabbed a bottle of his good stash of acetone from the back, and started walking. The tears kept flowing, mixing with the dust on his face to leave muddy tracks down his cheeks and under the point of his chin. He probably looked like shit, not that he cared. There wasn't anything else but the pain in his chest and the roar in his head.

His destination was no great surprise. The crash site had always beckoned him when he was sad, or scared, or angry. It was nothing but a low point in the gravel and sand, but he could feel the magnetic pull of it as he got closer. There was no relief as he sat down hard on the dirt, just the sense that he was in a place that was only his.

He drank heavily from the bottle and grimaced at the strong taste. He knew that his carefully built up resistance meant he would need to finish it all to feel any effect. Hell, maybe he'd expire from dehydration or intoxication, or both. It would probably hurt less than what he was feeling right now.

He hugged his arm across his chest to try to ease the pain and drank again, rubbing at his face with the back of his hand. He couldn't stand the idea of Alex injured and bleeding, couldn't contemplate a world without him in it, even if they hadn't seen each other in years.

Michael sobbed as he remembered their last conversation. He had stood in that shed and yelled, screamed, angry that Alex was leaving for basic training. His hand was still in a make-shift cast that July and he had jabbed his usable fingers into his lover's chest.

"Do you really think this will make your Dad proud? Come on, Private, you're smarter than that."

But despite the goading, Alex was quiet, subdued – just as he had been since he'd come to the decision to go.

"I'm sorry. It's just something I need to do. It's always been the plan, and I'm going to follow through."

"Who CARES what they think!" he screamed back, throwing his arms out to the sides. "If you need to go, let's get in my truck and GO. Wherever you want."

He hated that he looked so defeated; hated his new haircut and the spark that was missing from his eyes. Michael reached out and took a fistful of Alex's t-shirt with his left hand, giving him a hard shake.

"We can go anywhere. Just, don't do this. You can't take it back."

Alex looked down at Michael's hands, one clenched in a fist against his chest, the other wrapped in plaster and gauze. He took both in his own, soothing the fingers with light strokes until the left hand relaxed and the right let go of its death grip on his shirt.

"I know, Guerin, but it's for the best. If I hang around, you'll always be trying to protect me. And look what happened the last time."

His voice hitched and he breathed deeply.

"I don't want to leave like this, ok? I don't want to go away with us fighting."

Michael shook his head and tried to calm down. Alex sounded so resigned to going, he knew there wasn't any changing his mind. And if he didn't want to end things on a bad note, Michael would give him something better to remember.

He pulled Alex against his chest, intent on kissing the life out of him, but was stopped by a hand on his cheek. Instead, Alex leaned in and brushed their lips together in a soft caress; a farewell, not a promise.

And before he knew it, a suddenly grown up Alex was hefting his duffel bag onto his shoulder and turning for the door.

"I'll miss you, Guerin."

"Alex, please!" Michael's voice broke on a sob, his pride gone.

He took another pull on the bottle, shamefully remembering how he'd begged, remembering how Alex had been strong enough for both of them and left with just another sad smile. And now, Alex was the one broken. And he'd never see that smile again.

An anguished yell punched out from his chest, sending sand flying in all directions. God, this world wasn't fair. Why the universe would take a gentle soul like Alex over the fucked-up monster he was, Michael couldn't understand. His anger at the injustice of it all broke the earth to his left, creating a sharp, jagged crack in the dirt, big enough to wedge his fingers into.

His fury grew as he considered that the main reason Alex left was his father's incessant abuse. He remembered feeling helpless as he watched the man choke his own son. Sure, he could have used his powers – dropped a cinder block on him or something - but that would have revealed his secret. And no matter how strong their connection felt at the time, he couldn't be sure Alex would understand.

So he'd stood by, watching like a weak little boy, until his rage and fear had made him strong enough to intervene. It wasn't the remembered pain of his fingers breaking that caused the rift to open up in the sand on his right; it was knowing that the fear in Alex's voice that day had likely visited him again in the moments before and after he was injured.

And there was nothing Michael could do to take that away.

His final scream of anguish created additional, spiky fissures, spiralling out from where he sat on the ground. From above, it appeared as though he had impacted the earth, cracking the landscape in all directions for half a mile or more. He took the last mouthful from the bottle, tipping it up in the hopes of finding a few more drops, before tossing it in the direction of his truck. It was then that he saw the tell-tale dust cloud of a vehicle approaching. It could only be one of two people. And he didn't want to talk to either of them.

A few minutes later, a worried looking Isobel appeared, walking carefully and observing the pattern of cracks around him with confusion.

"Michael? Are you ok?"

She stopped short after focusing on his face. Man, apparently he really did look like shit.

"What are you doing here, Is?" He hoped his tone made it clear that he didn't want any help.

"I heard you," she said slowly, gesturing at her forehead like she was in pain. "I _felt_ you."

He laughed, humourlessly. "Sorry."

Isobel crouched down beside him, forcing him to turn his head to avoid her eyes.

"What's going on? Did you do this to the ground?"

"Yeah. I was a little out of control." He swiped at his eyes, smearing the dirt around on his face some more.

She finally sat, bumping her shoulder against his. "It felt like you were dying."

He knew she was trying to make a joke, but it didn't feel funny. He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them like he used to when they were kids.

"I think I actually did, a little."

Isobel's eyebrows raised, but she didn't say anything else. Years of being "siblings" meant she knew how to wait him out, until he was ready to talk. She leaned against him, patient for the moment and content to just watch the twirls of dust in the wind.

Her phone interrupted the quiet moment.

"Hey. Yeah, I found him."

Michael's face tightened up and he rolled his eyes. Max, checking on him. It seemed he was broadcasting his private grief for everyone. Wonderful.

"No, he's physically ok, I think. A couple of cuts but nothing major. But something's wrong, and he knows I'm going to wait until he tells me."

She was teasing, but also completely serious. Isobel stood by her brothers, even if it was misguided and completely unnecessary and unwanted.

"No, we're good. You deal with the store. If you haven't heard from me by sundown, maybe bring some blankets? We're at the crash site. Yeah, I know. Ok, bye."

She hung up and shut her phone off,and tucked it back in her purse. Usually he could let the silence drag out until she got bored and started talking about something inconsequential. But today, with his heart hurting and his head swimming, he was completely raw and open. And he couldn't hold it all inside.

"I didn't get to say goodbye."

Isobel jerked at his voice, at the tears she could hear beneath it. She laid her hand on his arm.

"To who?"

He sniffed and wiped at a fresh round of tears.

"Alex."

"Alex…? Manes?" she asked in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

It took him a long time to form the words, because his body wanted to reject them and what they meant.

"He got hurt, out of country. They said he's not… not going to make it."

The sand swirled around them, surging in angry bursts before arching out towards the sky, leaving a pattern of rings on the ground around them. Isobel eyed the disturbance warily, but didn't ask.

"That's horrible. I didn't know you were that… close."

Michael closed his eyes and the ground trembled beneath them, pebbles bouncing along the surface in waves.

"We were, once."

"I'm so sorry." She paused, squeezing his forearm. "It's not your fault. You can't blame yourself for this, Michael."

"I don't," he sighed, setting his jaw. "I blame the universe for being cruel and completely devoid of mercy or kindness."

The air around him crackled with energy, and she edged away, taking her hand off his arm.

"I know you're hurting. But there is kindness in this world."

"Not for me!" He slammed his fist on the ground, creating another crack that joined with an old one, leaving a gaping chasm between them.

"You cared about him, right?"

"I _care_ about him, yes."

Isobel inched back in a slow crawl, away from the widening crack.

"Ok, and he cared about you."

He took a slow breath at those words, remembering. "Yeah."

"Well then, isn't that kindness? When you care about someone, you're kind to them because you care, not for any other reason."

Her turn of phrase tickled something in Michael's brain; something Alex said way back at the beginning.

_People don't always have an agenda. They can just be nice to each other for no reason, sometimes._

Alex had smiled then, like he always did when he said something that seemed obvious and simple. But he knew too that Michael had seen precious little of that simple kindness in his life. He would never see that smile again.

The pain lanced through him once more, and he cried out, holding his arms across his chest. Holding his heart in.

"Michael, you need to stop." There was a wariness in Isobel's voice, and when he looked up, he saw real fear in her eyes.

He followed her gaze to find that the ground he was sitting on was now a platform. The surrounding earth had completely crumbled, dropping down twelve inches all the way around him. Isobel had scrambled backwards to solid footing, but still looked nervous.

"I don't know how to not feel this, Is."

She dusted off her hands and stood up, brushed the dirt from her pants while retreating to the front of her car. "You said you didn't get to say goodbye. So go do that."

"What?"

"Go say goodbye." She said the words deliberately, sounding completely confident that they were the answer he needed.

"How do I do that? He's probably… gone, already." His shoulders shook violently at the thought, but surprisingly didn't cry. He didn't think he had any tears left.

Isobel's voice took on an urgency. "But what if he's not!? I know it'll be hard, but could you forgive yourself if you didn't try?"

Michael scrubbed at his face, running his hands through his hair and tugging on it to snap out of his mood.

"There's a serious problem with your plan. I don't know where he is."

"Lucky for you, your gifted sister has a way of making people tell her things."

"No!" Michael threw out his hand, pushing Isobel back against her car with his mind. "You can't get into the old man's head. Alex wouldn't want him to know that I… care."

He hated the sympathy he saw in her eyes, as she put two and two together.

"Oh Michael… I'm sorry. I didn't realize that… that you two-"

"Just let it go, Isobel."

She worried her lip, rolling the new information around in her head. "I'm sure I can find out the old fashioned way. I'll tell his father that the alumni want to send flowers or something. He can't very well say no to that, can he?"

He shook his head and carefully got up, jumping down off the earthen platform he had somehow created with his emotions.

"Thanks, but no."

Michael limped towards his truck, completely physically spent. He felt like he'd aged a hundred years since he sat down in the dirt, and his stomach was probably going to boil over on the way home. That was a delightful side effect of using their powers too much.

Isobel stood between him and his escape. "I'll find out where he is, Michael. I promise you. Just be ready to go when I do, all right?"

He nodded, but he didn't believe she could really do it. And that was probably the way things were supposed to go, anyway. He and Alex had a perfect couple of weeks. That was more than some people got in a lifetime.

He would never forget that smile or the kind heart behind it. But he could sure as hell go back to his trailer and get drunk for days to take the edge off.

The rest of the night was a blur. There was nail polish remover, and something stronger from the junk yard's shed, mixed with bourbon and a fresh round of tears. It was amazing he was still conscious. But even with old photos of Alex under his pillow, which he would never admit to having, and enough alcohol and chemicals to knock out an elephant, sleep refused to come.

And so, 8:00am Wednesday morning found him leaning against his counter with a horrible headache and a mug of black coffee. He never did get that coffee cream.

He refused to let his heart leap when his phone buzzed, showing Isobel's face on the screen.

"Yeah, I'm still alive."

"That's SO not appropriate, Michael. Look, I found him. He's in the military hospital at Holloman Air Force Base. That's about two and half hours from here. But his father says he's in a coma and won't know if anyone is there..."

"I don't care, Isobel. It doesn't matter if he's awake. I'm going." His voice gave out as his mind raced and a small seed of hope was planted. "Thank you. Just… yeah. Thank you."

Michael was out of the trailer with a bag over his shoulder and another cup of coffee in his mug in less than two minutes. His truck hit ninety before he even made it to the highway.


	3. Chapter 3

February 28, 2018

Now that he was here, Michael wasn't sure he could force his feet to walk in the door.

The medical complex was huge. He'd had to do some pretty fancy talking to find out which building Alex was in. But after getting past that initial hurdle, no one had questioned his presence there. The cowboy hat probably helped him blend in, look less like a terrorist or reporter. After the life he'd lived, he was nothing if not a chameleon.

The nurse in charge on the ward seemed happy that someone was asking about Alex, and he was surprised. He'd spent the entire drive going over every possibility that might be waiting for him at the other end. Would his father be there? Or one or more of his brothers? Would he even be allowed to see Alex, after coming all this way? And what if Alex was awake and didn't want to see him? But never had he considered that 4th generation Airman Manes would be alone in this place, with no one at all to visit or watch over him.

Standing outside room 412, he felt like a stupid teenager. The door was open. He could see the foot of the bed and the small window across the way. And he knew that Alex was still unconscious. There was nothing stopping him from walking in and seeing the face he'd been avoiding dreaming about for almost ten years. But he was afraid. Afraid of what he would see, or not see. Afraid that the feelings would be too much, or that he'd embarrass himself by saying something dumb.

The nurse he'd spoken to at the central desk walked up behind him on her squeaky, white shoes.

"It's ok, you know. A lot of people get stuck right where you are now. Just remember that you're here for him, not you."

Her stride squeaked on down the hall and he took a deep breath. Then another. And on the third, he managed to make his legs move through sheer strength of will.

His first thought was that Alex looked… bigger than when he saw him last; broader in the shoulder and chest, but still small in the big hospital bed. There were tubes everywhere, and machines that beeped and flashed. It was a lot to take in, and the medical equipment made him anxious on many levels, so Michael tried to just see the man underneath it all.

His face was a mess of scrapes and bruises, a jagged cut ran through his eyebrow and under a bandage. His head was wrapped in gauze, dark hair sticking out in tufts. His jaw was purple on the right side and the angry colour disappeared under the neck of his mint green hospital gown. Michael's eyes traced every visible injury, the bad ones making the breath catch in his throat. His right hand and wrist were hidden by a bright white cast, but the tips of his tanned fingers rested against the sheets. Michael touched them gently, one at a time, unsure if that was allowed.

His inventory continued down below the waist until something struck him as wrong. The blankets weren't sitting right over Alex's legs on this side. He reached out his hand to smooth them, and met only air.

Oh, god.

His hands gripped the bedside so hard it groaned and the mirror in the bathroom chattered against the wall. Michael's body bent towards the bed, his chest collapsing in on itself.

_NO! _his head screamed. _NO, this can't be happening to him. Not Alex. Not this._

Even though he'd give anything to make it so, Michael knew he couldn't make this better, couldn't change the finality of what was missing under the sheets. He clawed back the sob that wanted to escape and tried to hold it together for Alex's sake. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.

Alive, for now. But maybe not for long.

Abruptly, Michael needed some fresh air.

"I'll be back, Private," he whispered. He brushed against those fingertips again before sliding back out the door.

As he hurried towards the exit, he caught glimpses through open doorways. Unlike Alex's barren, clinical space, in other rooms there were flowers and books on the little side tables, families talking and televisions playing, making it feel more like home. But no one had gotten those things for Alex.

The hot desert air on the other side of the automatic doors was a welcome change. Michael had never spent any time in a hospital, and the smells and sounds were disturbing to him. He paced around the corner of the building, into a small courtyard space with a reflecting pool and rock gardens. Not for the first time, he wished he smoked, simply for a distraction in situations like these.

There was a bench facing the pool, and he sat quickly, his muscles just giving out and dropping him onto the wooden seat. This wasn't at all what he expected it to be. He'd been looking forward to a fight, with hospital staff or with Alex's family, or hell, even with Alex himself. That's how he dealt with things. But there was no such outlet for his feelings here. Instead, there was only the prospect of quiet waiting, hoping and praying.

He wasn't sure he was up to it, honestly. He wasn't a big believer in wishful thinking. His life had never given him any reason to be that way. Generally the worst that could possibly happen, did. But he had learned to survive and keep going.

His eyes cast around the garden, looking at the desert landscaping but not really seeing it. He braced his elbows on his knees and let his head hang down, burying his face in his hands. Oh god, Alex. Those bruises and tubes and machines scared him. But that gap under the blankets was truly terrifying.

Fuck, this was such a mess. He wasn't the person Alex needed to help him through this. He wasn't strong enough, positive enough. Hell, he didn't even have any money to buy him things for his room. He just wasn't that guy. But he was here. And he wasn't ready to say goodbye just yet.

When Michael opened his eyes, he saw something green under the bench. A closer look revealed a tiny cactus, in bloom with a single red flower. It shouldn't have been able to survive there, but it had. He and Alex were both tough like that. They'd both survived bad things; cruel, unfair things. And despite the shitty situation he'd been in at home, Alex had helped him at a time when Michael needed it the most. He had cared for him, no matter the personal cost.

He looked around and noticed he was alone in the courtyard. Slowly the reflecting pond rippled in waves, creating patterns out and back, left and right. Michael mentally played with the water from a distance as he tried to get his head on straight. He didn't want to go back upstairs so conflicted and angry. He needed to be calm - strong in a quiet way that he normally wasn't. He needed to be more like Alex.

When he left the garden, his back was a little straighter and his fists weren't tight at his sides. And the cactus came with him.

He put the metal coffee mug on the windowsill of Alex's room. He'd brought it along in the truck that morning on his mad dash to the hospital and it wasn't much, but it was the best he could think of to hold the little cactus. The thing would probably die soon, anyway. But it made Michael feel better that Alex's room wasn't completely bare. It showed that someone cared.

He paced around for a while, peered out the window at the air conditioning plant at the back of the next building, watched a couple of clouds skitter across a mostly-blue sky. He read all of the emergency evacuation procedures on the back of the door, and inspected each piece of equipment at the side of the bed. He would never admit it, but he was scared to sit down; mostly, because he didn't know what to say.

It was strange that Alex still made him feel nervous, even while unconscious. Michael knew he came across to everyone as cocky, and he supposed in some ways he was. But most of it was learned. And around Alex it was very intentional, to cover up the awkwardness he always felt. It wasn't just that he felt like a gawky teenager around him. When Alex looked at him he felt vulnerable, like all of his secrets were too close to the surface. And god knew he had a lot of them.

He was reading the instructions on the side of the heart rate monitor for the third time when the nurse came in. She gave him a quick, professional smile and went about her business, checking Alex's vitals and noting them in the chart she carried with her. Michael backed up against the window, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

She was quick about it, finishing up in less than two minutes. But on her way out, she paused in the doorway.

"Try talking to him. I've heard lots of patients say they could hear things while they were under."

Michael's face was impassive, but his chest felt tighter.

"Not sure that I'd have anything interesting to say."

She shook her head and adjusted the thermostat dial on the wall.

"Suit yourself. But I suspect it's more the sound of someone's voice than the actual words that's important. Just let him know he's not here alone."

He didn't have a snappy comeback for that logic, but it didn't matter because she had already moved on to the next room.

He sighed heavily and let his eyes wander over Alex's unconscious form again. He knew about being alone, about feeling like there was no one in the world who gave you a second thought. And he didn't want Alex to feel that way, because it wasn't true.

He opened his mouth to try, but coughed instead, stupidly holding onto his pride. It shouldn't be that hard to find something to say to him. But ten years was a long time. And he was absurdly scared that if he started talking, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from revealing everything that was rattling around in his head. Still, the silence was getting uncomfortable, even for him.

Staying true to form, Michael started with a joke.

"This is taking your love of sleeping in a little far, don't you think? Although, it's not a bad gig, I guess. I could go for lying around on my ass for a week or two. And I bet the sponge baths aren't bad, either."

Feeling like he'd broken the ice, albeit to an unresponsive audience, he walked around the end of the bed. He took the time to swing the door nearly shut on his way by, though. No reason for anyone else to hear his pathetic attempts at one-sided conversation.

Sitting down in the vinyl visitor's chair, he stalled out again. What could he talk to Alex about that wasn't completely inane? The answer was everything, and nothing at all – both answers he'd like to avoid. _It's just about your voice, dummy_. He sighed again and ran his hands through his hair, wishing he'd brought some acetone with him. He leaned his elbows into his knees and focused on those fingertips, laying too still on the bed.

"You know, this wasn't exactly the way I'd pictured us meeting again.

He chuckled darkly and rubbed his hand over his face.

"Actually, I wasn't entirely sure I'd ever see you again. But somehow, it just felt like the universe wouldn't make it so easy on us, you know?"

He reached out, brushing against Alex's fingers, wanting to twine them between his own.

"You didn't have to almost get yourself killed to make it happen. But I know you're all about the dramatics, so…"

Michael eased back in his chair and slid it closer to the hospital bed, tucking his feet onto one of the metal support bars underneath. He slid down in the seat and got comfortable, finally admitting to himself that he wasn't leaving until they kicked him out at closing time. And he kept playing with Alex's fingers, willing them to twitch and move.

"Not sure when you were last home, but the town hasn't changed much. Max is a deputy sheriff, if you can believe it. I guess it's not a big surprise, the boy scout going into law enforcement. And the cowboy hat is a definite improvement from his stupid backwards ball cap.

"Green's alien museum monstrosity is getting a renovation. He wanted to rip the whole front off the building, but the historic commission wouldn't let him since the theatre is 70 years old. Which is good, I guess. I'm sort of fond it, especially the ticket booth."

He glanced at Alex's face, remembering how nervous he was, standing there letting his heart hang out in public on the side walk. And then in the back room, and their first kiss, and then their second and third. He cleared his throat and squeezed his fingers around Alex's, trying not to lose his train of thought.

"The drive-in is still going. Isobel organizes the annual veterans' fundraiser there, and they always show the same damn movie. God, I hate it. But every year I fix the projector because she asks me to, and I can't say no to her. Maybe I should, but…

"I'm living at the ranch. Saved up for a sweet vintage Airstream so I can take my place with me, you know, wherever. But it's mostly there. There's just something about wide open spaces that works for me. After being cooped up in places that weren't my choice, I guess I like knowing I can go anywhere I want. Just pick up and leave. But I just can't seem to leave Roswell. Too many memories, I guess."

The light faded slowly from the sky, but Michael didn't move from his spot beside Alex's bed. His stomach growled in protest sometimes, but that was nothing new. It certainly wasn't enough to get him to leave. He spoke when something occurred to him that might be of interest, then would just sit in silence, thinking about the past. And he never let go of Alex's fingers.

The nurse was by every couple of hours, doing her rounds. The first time he jumped up, guiltily moving away from Alex's bedside, like he'd been caught doing something wrong. But she just shushed him when he tried to make an excuse.

"Don't mind me at all. I'm glad Mr. Manes has some company. You just continue like I'm not here."

By her third visit, Michael didn't bother to get up. But he thanked her for taking good care of Alex.

She stopped at his side and patted him on the shoulder.

"You're doing far more than I am."

On her final round, at about 7:30, she gave him a sad smile.

"Visiting hours end at 8:00."

He didn't want to leave, but also didn't want to make trouble for her or for Alex. His joints were stiff as he sat up straight, his arm tingling with numbness. Tomorrow he'd be better prepared, he thought. He'd bring something to eat, and maybe a book to read. He really didn't think he'd be able to prattle on about the last decade of Roswell's dull history for another day without hating the sound of his own voice.

When the nurse left, he stood up to look down at Alex. Michael would have loved to say he looked peaceful, like he was just sleeping, but that would be a lie. Alex looked unconscious and unwell, and it again struck him how grateful he was to have this time. Because it might be over tomorrow or the next day. And he didn't want to waste a moment of it.

After a quick glance at the door, he leaned down and brushed his lips over the only spot on Alex's cheek that wasn't injured.

"Night, Private. I'll see you tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I suppose this is where my story will diverge from the series a bit. I didn't anticipate learning what we did about Alex's duties in the Air Force last week, so that sadly won't be included. But I hope you're enjoying it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. And if you like, please leave a review. Thanks! **

**...**

March 1, 2018

It was a long drive, back and forth from Roswell to the hospital. But Michael didn't mind. He liked driving, with the window down and nothing but a long track of asphalt ahead of him. And it wasn't like he could afford a motel room near the hospital anyway.

He got back late that first night and stopped at Max's house to _borrow _ some books. Luckily the deputy was out working the night shift, so Michael didn't have to explain what they were for. He was sure there would be pointed questions and teasing comments about his sudden desire to read Kerouac or Dickens. In the end, he wasn't sure what Alex would like and picked a few at random based on their level of wear and tear. He figured if Max had read them more than a few times, they couldn't be that bad.

The next morning he set out early, before the sun was even fully above the horizon. He stopped at the bakery for a donut and coffee which was the only splurge he could really afford that week. His lunch in the brown bag on the passenger seat was a bean burrito and an apple - not the worst thing he'd ever eaten. And then there was nothing but 125 miles of sun-baked dirt to look forward to.

He passed a few big trucks but very few cars, which just proved he was up earlier than usual. After the long drive and the quick break-in at Max's (he didn't feel it qualified as breaking and entering if he turned the deadbolt with his brain), Michael had crashed into bed. No drinking; no sitting by the fire, brooding; just sleep. Very deep sleep.

It was… weird, actually; but weirdly nice, too. It was rare that he could fall asleep and stay that way for a decent number of hours, without chemical help. Sleep was easy to come by with enough acetone or other substances, but for Michael it was never restful.

In contrast, this morning he felt bright, sharp and un-clouded. Again, not something he was used to, but a nice feeling all the same. He refused to think too closely about the reason. It certainly wasn't because he was on his way to see Alex.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

Instead, he concentrated on the horizon in the distance, and the way the sun felt on the back of his head as it streamed in from the east.

The same nurse was at the central, round desk when he got off the elevator with his lunch and shopping bag of books.

She glanced up at him, and then returned to the chart in her hands. "He'll be glad to see you're back today."

Michael just rolled his eyes. "Still unconscious."

"Doesn't matter," she replied with a smile.

He took a deep breath before walking in but didn't let his nerves hold him at the door. Alex was just where he'd left him. The hospital gown had changed to baby blue, and the sheets were newly tucked-in. But other than that, it was like he'd never left.

After swinging the door nearly shut, Michael leaned down to kiss Alex's forehead through his bandage.

"Mornin', Private."

The sun was glaring in through the windows, warming Alex's skin. But Michael was worried it might be hurting his eyes, so he carefully tilted the blinds.

"There, that's better. Don't want to fry your retinas."

Once he was sure there was nothing else he could do to make Alex more comfortable, he took up his previous position in the chair.

"So, I thought, rather than listen to home town facts again, maybe I could read something? At least then we won't have to resort to talking about the weather or some crap."

He dug around in the bag and picked the first one his fingers could grab.

"Seriously?" Michael muttered under his breath. "That's some twisted, cosmic karma."

He stared at the paperback's cover, disbelieving. He really should have just brought one of his physics texts. But it would be a long day of one-sided small talk if he didn't read something. With that in mind he turned the yellowed pages until he got to the beginning of the story.

"Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy…"

He read to the end of the first chapter, rolling his eyes at Adams' descriptions of alien beings and planets.

_If only he knew_.

For an analytical mind like Michael's it was too many made-up words, too much comedic fantasy. And it felt ridiculous to read out loud. _Slartibartfast,_ for god's sake?! He hated tripping over the names, hated sounding foolish in front of Alex and anyone else that might hear him from the hall.

He had just snapped the book closed when the nurse came in with a smile on. He avoided her eyes, in case she was also laughing at his expense over the damn book choice. But she acted like he was another piece of bland, hospital furniture, checking Alex's temperature and various other things just the same as she had the day before.

And then she tapped the heart rate monitor's screen.

"Something wrong?"

"No," she said absently. "Just making sure it's correct. His rate is up from earlier this morning."

"Oh?" Michael's feet came down from their perch under Alex's bed, his own pulse speeding up.

She must have heard the worry in his voice.

"It's good, actually. A little faster, a little more even." The nurse then turned and looked right at Michael.

"Whatever you're doing, it's working. Keep it up." When she left, she pulled the door closed behind her, latching it all the way.

Yeah, she'd definitely heard him reading the stupid book.

Michael rubbed his face with both hands and leaned forward in the chair, chuckling.

"You couldn't react to the _Journal of Computational Physics_ or _Celestial Mechanics and Dynamical Astronomy_ or something? It had to be this Hitchhiker shit?"

He sighed and got to his feet, pacing around to look out the window and stretch the kinks from his legs. When he turned around, he noticed that Alex's upper arm had goosebumps. It did feel a little drafty on the window side of the bed. He rooted through the tall cabinet and the drawers in the side table, but couldn't find an extra blanket. The thermostat near the door was similarly useless, locked at the bottom to protect against tampering.

Ok, fine. He wasn't going to go chasing down the hall for the nurse, either. So, he shrugged out of his grey hoodie and tucked it around Alex's shoulder, down to where his left arm disappeared under the sheets. At least that side of him would be warm.

Michael's shoulders shivered under his t-shirt in the air conditioning and he settled back into the chair. He sighed when he looked at the book again.

"Ok, here's the deal. I'll keep reading this, because for some strange reason you seem to like it. But if you tell anyone, you're in serious trouble. You hear me?"

_I hope you can hear me._

He flipped to the page where they'd left off, taking a deep breath to find his patience. At least the book wasn't that long. And he was getting used to hearing nothing but his own voice. Well, mostly.

"One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about human beings was their habit of continually stating and repeating the obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you alright?"

Michael snorted at the joke.

"At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behaviour. If human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up."

"Too true," he muttered.

"After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favour of a new one. If they don't keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working."

He slapped his leg and laughed outright at the sarcastic truth, finding some camaraderie with the character.

Michael had always felt apart from all the other people in Roswell. It seemed like a logical reaction, considering he _wasn't_ like all the other people in Roswell. But where Isobel and Max had assimilated, more or less successfully, he had always stood apart. An outsider. An observer. Much like the book, polite small talk had always infuriated him since it was, in his outsider's opinion, a waste of time.

Ok, maybe this book didn't completely suck.

And then, a few pages later, he finally read something that resonated with him.

"I don't know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here? Well you know that, said Ford. I rescued you from the Earth. And what's happened to the Earth? Ah. It's been demolished. Has it, said Arthur levelly. Yes. It just boiled away into space."

Michael cleared his throat, suddenly choked up.

"Look, said Arthur, I'm a bit upset about that."

He snapped the book closed and dropped it in his lap. And he wondered, not for the first time, what had become of wherever he came from. It was a regular preoccupation with him, cursed as he was with what passed as genius on this planet. Was his 'home' an atmospheric rock orbiting a star, like the place he was now? Had it been destroyed by a cosmic explosion, or rendered unlivable by war or famine or disaster? And were there others like him? Like Max and Isobel? Or were they the last 3 of whatever creature they were?

So many questions, but never any answers.

He rubbed his eyes and squeezed Alex's fingers. It would be nice to have someone to share his questions with. Max and Isobel never talked about it anymore. They had both accepted that their situation on Earth was static. They had made lives for themselves and never seemed to struggle to find meaning and fulfillment like he did. Michael was less accepting and more resigned about it all. But that didn't mean he didn't still wonder.

He wondered if perhaps he'd been singled out, sent away for some unknown reason - perhaps because he was a little too brash, too loud, too angry. Too much. Deep down, he secretly worried that he was sent away because he was unworthy, or because no one wanted him.

Not so unlike his present circumstances.

He also wondered sometimes what it would be like to share who and what he was with someone he trusted, someone he cared about. But there was really only one person that fit that description, and he was lying in the bed beside him.

Unconscious.

Michael's mind jolted at the realization that, things being as they were now, he could spill his secret to Alex in complete safety if he really wanted to. But that was a ludicrous, dangerous train of thought. It was never truly safe to tell someone you were an alien. Never. They had lived their whole lives in fear of being discovered. If anyone knew about them, they would be caged, dissected, or worse. The only way to stay hidden was to keep their mouths shut. And he wouldn't be the one to break their oath.

He cleared his throat and adjusted in the chair, opening the paperback again. Some secrets just shouldn't be told. Even the stupid book was better than continuing down that road.

He nodded off sometime later, dozing uncomfortably with his head at an odd angle, the book falling down on his chest. The nurse's shoes woke him with a start around four in the afternoon.

"Sorry, dear. I didn't mean to scare you."

Michael wiped his hand across his face, relieved that he wasn't drooling. He cracked his neck and swiveled his shoulders around stiffly.

"Geez. Too many more naps in this chair, and I'm going to need a hospital bed myself."

The nurse rolled her eyes and made an adjustment to the IV bag.

"The pillows in the cabinet across the hall are for patients only. But it's unlocked, just so you know," she murmured with a sideways glance at him.

Not that a simple lock would be a problem for him, he mused. He smirked back at her, and caught her smiling briefly before she turned away.

"Is there a coffee machine around here somewhere?"

She nodded. "End of the hall, up one floor. But it's horrible."

He laughed. "Is there _good_ coffee anywhere?"

She stopped, halfway out the door. "This is a hospital. The only good coffee is in my travel mug, which I bring with me."

Michael laughed again, but headed down the hall to get some from the machine anyway.

On the fifth floor there was less quiet convalescing and more active recovery. In contrast to Alex's ward, the patients were generally upright, moving around in their rooms or shuffling down the halls holding precariously to their IV stands or walkers. It was strange, he thought, to see soldiers thick with muscle mass being helped along by nurses and other staff. The public usually never saw this side of war, the slow loss of life and long recovery. Not unless it was their loved one that was injured. Would Alex ever get here, he wondered.

He leaned against the wall and sipped his coffee, which was indeed awful, and thought about what the future could hold. If he woke up, how would Alex deal with the obvious changes to his body?

_When_ he woke up.

Michael clenched his fist and refused to think otherwise. He had no idea how the world could go on turning without Alex in it. And the simple answer was that his world wouldn't. Even if they weren't together, weren't friends - a future without Alex looked eternally cold.

He crushed the paper cup in his hand and stalked back down the stairs. This world could beat him up all it wanted, even more than it already had. But it wasn't taking Alex away. Not if Michael had anything to say about it.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Since there's no new episode tonight, here's the latest chapter. Please enjoy and review.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Roswell, New Mexico**_**, nor any of the characters.**

*****_Content Warning_: This chapter has a theme of suicidal ideation. Please proceed accordingly.**

* * *

_2 days earlier_

February 28, 2018

Alex sat at the edge of the Grand Canyon, his legs dangling over the edge. The turquoise river twisted and cut its way through the rock hundreds of feet below him. Just the distance to the water's surface made his head swim, but he wasn't afraid. In his heart he was brave, he was more sure of this than anything he'd ever decided before. The water rushing past would be his salvation. In the midday heat of the desert sun, the cool rapids beckoned him.

There was a bird flying overhead, circling on huge brown wings, eyes seeing everything. It screeched for him to beware, but he wouldn't let it distract him. He couldn't listen. This was his destiny, this relief from the dusty, scorched desert where it seemed he'd spent his entire life. And it was within his grasp. It would be so easy to just push with his legs and fly, soar down to the waters below. And the river would catch him and ease the pain of his chapped skin and dry eyes. It would chill his heart so it beat only sluggishly, so slow it would never feel pain again.

He shuffled a little closer, his weight more hanging over the canyon's lip than seated on the ground. It was so close. The end to all his suffering was right there at the bottom. His life was finally in his hands alone. All he had to do was jump.

The bird screeched, louder this time and closer to his ears. It circled lower, gazing at him with topaz eyes. Alex's resolve was interrupted, and he began again, building up his courage, watching the hypnotic waters below, imagining what it would feel like to crash into them. Would the surface slice away his pain like cold knives, or would it catch him and slowly let him sink into oblivion? Either ending would do. Anything was better than baking in this sun for another lifetime.

He bent at the waist and tipped forward a little further, teetering on the rock ledge. Maybe the wind would do it for him, just push him off with a gust and a gentle nudge. But no, he couldn't take the easy route. He'd never taken the easy route. All of his life had been a struggle. Why would things be different now?

The answers to all of his questions were down there at the bottom of the canyon, he could feel them waiting to be discovered. Why was he gay? Why did his father despise him so much? Had he done something to deserve his father's scorn and abuse? Why had he chosen war over staying and fighting for his own life, for his happiness? Why was he never able to accept who he was and be proud of it?

All he had to do was jump, and it would all be behind him. There wasn't anything worth staying at the top of the cliff for anymore. And he was tired of hurting.

The bird's screech sounded once more. Alex looked across the expanse of empty space to find it perched on the other side of the canyon, looking curiously at him. He could see it was a golden eagle, now that it was stationary. It was beautiful in the way of dangerous predators, but he wasn't afraid.

"What?" he called out to it, annoyed at the break in his concentration.

The bird just paced back and forth, its talons scraping on the dusty ground.

"Don't look at me like that!"

The creature's wings extended out to their full span, feathers ruffling and settling down. It was huge, he thought, and he found he couldn't look away. And it wasn't looking away, either. Those yellow eyes stared across at Alex, piercing in their intelligence.

"WHAT?" he yelled across, unnerved by the animal's glare. "I KNOW, ok? I know it's weak of me, but I'm tired. I'm so FUCKING tired."

He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, letting his head hang down until his chin touched his chest. When he finally looked up, the bird was still staring. He didn't know why he felt the need to explain himself to the stupid thing. It wasn't like the bird cared if he stayed or jumped.

"I'm tired of not being enough, of not making any of the right choices. Or ANY choices, really. Everyone is always making choices for me, and telling me what I have to do. But finally, this is something I can choose."

Alex picked up a handful of pebbles and sand and threw it out into the openness in frustration, listening as the pieces bounced and pinged off the sheer rock face on the way down.

"I don't think anyone would blame me, considering." He huffed and swung his legs aimlessly. "And it's not like anyone will miss me. Not really."

The bird screeched again, flapping its wings against the breeze. Alex felt strangely chastised by the display.

"OK! Ok, people would notice. I have some friends that might miss me. My dad will probably be happy." He rolled his eyes and pitched another handful of gravel over the edge.

When he looked up, the eagle was giving him that intense stare again. Alex raised his eyebrow in challenge.

"I know what you're thinking. But it's been years and years. I'm sure he doesn't think about me at all. Any stupid, childish dreams I have of that being true are just in my head."

The animal grumbled in its throat.

"Trust me," Alex griped back. "I wrecked that a long time ago. I had help, mind you, from my Dad, and that town, and everyone. But it's definitely done."

He hung his head again, and when he looked up, the bird was perched on the very lip of the opposite edge of the canyon. It seemed to be leaning in, listening to him.

"It's my biggest regret, you know. No, not being with him," he rushed to add. "That was the best thing I've ever done. I just mean the way it ended; the way I left. I was so stupid and afraid. And I hurt him. I hurt him so badly, but I just couldn't see another choice."

He wiped at the tears that had leaked out to slide down his cheeks.

"He must hate me."

The eagle spread its wings and beat at the air, lifting off gracefully. It circled twice before landing on Alex's side of the valley. It was well out of reach, but he stiffened when the thing sidled closer.

He threw out his hand in a futile attempt to keep it from coming any further towards him.

"Don't get any ideas. If I'm going off, it'll be my choice. MY choice! You hear me?"

He looked over the edge and down past his feet to the rushing water below.

"It's my choice."

He'd never gotten to make any choices for himself. He didn't choose to be gay, didn't choose for his mother to leave when living with his father became too much. He didn't choose to be bullied or to lose his best friend. He hadn't chosen to enlist, or to break Michael's heart when his father forced him to go. Even being with Michael was never a choice, not really. It just _was_, without any conscious choice at all.

But this one thing was until his control, and his alone.

With a deep breath, Alex closed his eyes and opened his mind to all of the moments of his life. He only focused on the good ones, pushing the painful memories aside.

His mother watching a primary school Christmas concert from the first row with tears in her eyes when he sang an off-key _Jingle Bells_. A family camping trip when he was about nine years old, when his father was in a good mood and his brothers didn't mind playing with him. His 12th birthday when he got his first skateboard. A movie night with Maria and her mom, eating popcorn until he thought he would burst and laughing openly because his father was nowhere in sight. Playing his guitar in the music room at school and finally nailing a solo he'd been working on for weeks, feeling all of his emotions leave through the tips of his fingers. Michael kissing him in the UFO museum.

Oh god, Michael.

He squeezed his eyes tighter as the moments crowded up on themselves. Michael looking at him like he was beautiful, laying out under the stars in the back of his truck. Michael grinning at him when he was shy and awkward. Michael playing music for him and singing smooth, heartfelt words with that rough voice. Michael making him feel things with his hands and mouth that he didn't think were physically possible.

The memories stopped abruptly there. He refused to think beyond that, to the horrors that came later.

He tried to summon some good memories from his time in the Airforce, and there were a few; promotions that he'd worked hard for, real appreciation from his team, saving the life of an innocent bystander. They all paled in comparison to memories of his time with Michael, however. When you'd felt the kiss of the sun, even the hottest fire was only lukewarm.

But those moments with Michael were just memories. And how well could he trust his teenage recollections anyway? Maybe they weren't as big and grand as he remembered, when not seen through the lens of hormones and trauma at home. Maybe they were just average high school experiences.

And there had been other guys, after Michael. Well, two others, he thought with a grimace. Looking for love when you're gay in the military had been nearly impossible for him. And his heart wasn't in it. He'd just never felt that _thing_ again, that spark where he was just drawn to another person. Not since high school. Not since Michael.

So he'd gotten very good at keeping to himself. There was never a shortage of work, and those who put in extra hours were always the favourites of commanding officers. But he didn't have a life. No real group of friends that he could share himself with. No real home. No family. At this stage of his life, Alex had never felt more alone in the world. And considering his childhood, that was really saying something.

He glanced again at the river down below. It was right there; all the answers he wanted, all the peace he needed. All he had to do was jump.

The bird was silent, having edged so close that Alex could have run his fingers along the brown feathers if he reached out. He couldn't tell if its expression was asking him to stay, or encouraging him to go. It was just there, quietly staring.

Exhaustion crashed down on him again and he took a deep breath under the weight of it. He was so damn tired. And he was done fighting.

He shuffled forward again, until only his center of gravity was keeping him upright. Alex spread his arms wide and wriggled his fingers, felt the breeze running through them. He leaned forward, and kept going.

He'd always wanted to fly, and now, he was. Finally he had chosen something for himself.

* * *

**Don't worry, friends. Alex will be fine and their story will continue (hopefully soon, if I can find time to write this week).**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry about the long absence. My very old laptop finally died and I had to wait for my new one to be delivered. Still not sure I like it – but I'm sure I'll get used to it. Right?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Roswell, New Mexico**_**, nor any of the characters.**

**Quotes are from **_**Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg: The Letters**_** \- definitely something Max would have on his shelf.**

* * *

February 28, 2018 … _continued_…

The first thing Alex felt was warmth - which didn't make sense, because he shouldn't have felt anything at all. And yet, his whole body was warm and comfortable. And wasn't that a blessing?

He slowly became aware of his body and senses, like static fritzing around his periphery. He could hear water lapping, and birds chirping. He could smell warm, cut grass and the tang of wet wood. He was lying back, reclined on something soft and supported gently on both sides. And he could feel water rocking him, gently back and forth. He was tempted to slip back into sleep, soothed by the motion and comfort. But then he remembered.

The fall: tumbling down through the still, hot air, head over feet, arms flailing, the terror rising in his throat. He had thought he would feel free, triumphant, exhilarated. Instead, he'd been afraid and immediately remorseful. The eagle dove down after him, circling around and around, like a raptor after its flying prey, like a dogfight between two skilled fighter pilots. But the bird's talons never scratched him, the wings never brushed against him. Strangely, his descent seemed to slow marginally from the bird's frantic actions.

As he approached the water's surface at maximum velocity, his mind latched onto inconsequential questions: Would he scream as he died? Was he screaming now? It was impossible to tell because of the roar of the wind in his ears. He was certain he was crying, though. Or maybe it was just the wind making his eyes water. He tried to tense his muscles in preparation, but the effort was wasted. Instead, Alex prayed. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, Alex begged whoever was listening for a second chance; for his future, for his loved ones, for himself.

He expected the water to break every bone in his body. He wouldn't drown, he thought; no, he would have the life crushed out of him by the impact. He would flatten like a pancake and sink comically into the river like Wile E. Coyote chasing the damn roadrunner. But none of that happened. There was no impact, no pain. Instead, the water opened up and swallowed him whole, enveloping him in darkness. All he could see was inky black. All he knew was liquid depths that no sunlight could penetrate. He didn't bother trying to breathe – there was no point. And it was cold; so cold he couldn't feel his toes anymore, so cold his ears burned and tingled and his fingers were numb.

"Was this the end?" he thought. Was this where his final choice had led him?

He gave up fighting, and let his heavy eyes close; permanently, or so he thought. But now there was this warmth, wherever he was.

Alex tried to blink his eyelids open, but they didn't respond. He sighed and tried raising his eyebrows up onto his forehead with no success. He concentrated hard on moving his cheeks, bunching them up and down. Finally, after squeezing his facial muscles like they were weight lifters, he managed a squint.

The sunlight was bright, but not painful, and the sky was so blue it felt like velvet. It was the kind of sky he had watched as a kid on Sunday afternoons to find shapes and animals in the clouds. Slowly, other things started to come into focus as well. He was on a boat. Well, more like he was _in_ a boat - a small rowboat maybe, and he was lying on his back, staring up with his bare feet hanging over the squared end. He wasn't touching the water, but he could feel the coolness under his heels. The boat was narrow enough that the curves of the sides held him, cradling his shoulders and hips, keeping him tucked into the blanket he was lying on.

It certainly wasn't the same place he'd jumped into, but Alex didn't want to question his good luck too much.

He couldn't lift his head to look, but he was betting the boat was on a lake, not the ocean. He'd never actually _been_ to the ocean, but he somehow knew it would smell different than this place.

"Is this heaven?" he wondered out loud. This perfect, sunny day certainly felt like it could be.

A chuckle from behind startled him and sent his body rocketing upwards.

"It's not heaven," said the familiar voice.

Alex froze, mid sit-up, frantically trying to make sense of what his brain was telling him. A gentle hand on his shoulder urged him back down, and then the sun was blocked by a smirking face that leaned over from the bow of the boat.

Michael.

"What-? How-?" Alex stuttered, trying to catch his breath.

"Geez Alex, go easy," he said with a hint of laughter. "You'll tip us both into the water." Michael's smooth voice eased the tightness in his chest a little, but his thoughts were still racing, trying to make sense of it all.

Alex closed his eyes, 99% sure that this was a sick dream concocted by his subconscious to make him long for something he couldn't have. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. But when he blinked open again, Michael's face was still hanging over him, those curls he missed so much tickling his forehead.

Even though his brain was screaming at him to ask more questions, to sort everything out in his own mind, his heart quietly begged him to just go with it; to accept the easy comfort this strange scene was offering. Because it was so much better than any reality he'd known lately.

"Sorry, I…" Alex's voice lagged, and he smiled apologetically up at Michael, basking in the warm affection of his eyes.

"Bad dream again?" He reached out to stroke his thumb along Alex's cheek, soothing.

God, he'd missed that feeling; the little sparks that skipped along his skin when Michael touched him. He'd do anything to keep that feeling close to him. He sighed and relaxed back down into the bottom of the boat.

"Sort of," he murmured.

Michael smiled again, a lazy curl of those lips Alex loved. His hand slid down until his fingers just slipped under the neck of Alex's t-shirt, fingers caressing his collarbone.

"Just relax, gorgeous. We got nowhere else to be. If you want to sleep all day out here, then that's what we'll do."

Alex felt his eyes getting heavy again, just at the suggestion of sleep. "But I don't want you get bored…" His words slipped off at the end, his lips barely working.

The boat shivered as Michael sat back and leaned into the bow of the boat, his legs coming up on either side to rest next to Alex's arms.

"Don't you worry 'bout that. I got you, I got sunshine and a cool breeze, and a place to put my beer. I'm good."

Sleep claimed Alex again, but he fell gently, with a smile on his lips and lightness in his heart.

When next he woke, it was to the sound of Michael's voice. The words weren't clear, but the tone and cadence were so familiar - like a warm blanket on Alex's chest. He smiled and just listened, content to leave his eyes closed this time. And eventually, the sounds came into focus.

"_I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself. I wish to obliterate my consciousness and my knowledge of independent existence, my guilts, my secretiveness_."

It was obvious he was reading, not just talking to himself out loud, and Alex popped an eyebrow at the quote but stayed silent. He could hear Michael flipping pages, muttering under his breath about flowery language and self-indulgent authors. But there was an underlying quiver, like the words hit a little too close to home.

"_Love is only a recognition of our own guilt and imperfection, and a supplication for forgiveness to the perfect beloved. This is why we love those who are more beautiful than ourselves, why we fear them, and why we must be unhappy lovers_."

Michael snorted. "Well, that's just bullshit."

Alex couldn't help his chuckle, but tried to keep it quiet.

"You laughing at me, Private?"

"No," Alex whispered back. "Keep reading."

Michael grunted, but the pages kept flipping.

"_I'm afraid that you'll never understand me fully, and because of that, sometimes you'll be frightened, disgusted, annoyed, or pleased_."

More flipping, more mumbling. The little noises made Alex smile fondly.

"_You were right, I suppose, in keeping your distance. I was too intent on self-fulfillment, and rather crude about it, with all my harlequinade and conscious manipulation of your pity_."

Alex heard Michael huff, then the solid thump of a book hitting the bottom of the boat.

"Who uses words like _harlequinade_?"

Alex did laugh openly at that and let one eyelid crack to let in the sunlight. He took a quick breath when he noticed that their positions had somehow reversed in the boat while he was sleeping. He was now laid back in the bow where Michael had been previously, and Michael was sitting up at the stern facing him.

He hadn't been so asleep that he wouldn't have noticed being bodily moved around, surely. And there's no way Michael could have done it without flipping the boat. His sense of anxiety spiked, and he felt vaguely seasick at the inconsistencies. Alex shook his head a little to clear it, but Michael was still sitting across from him when he focused back in. He watched Michael kick the book away with his bare toe, and then let his eyes trail up to take in the rest of his lanky frame.

Michael looked like the picture of relaxation; rolled up jeans, white t-shirt, sunglasses perched on his head. It was an attractive image, but Alex felt intrinsically that it was wrong somehow. The Michael he knew never wore Ray Ban sunglasses. And he certainly wouldn't have been caught dead in this preppy, lakeside outfit. Something was definitely off, but it was more like a tickle at the back of his brain, not really anything to cause alarm. His heart tugged again at the perfection of the scene before him – the fact that it was ridiculously implausible certainly wasn't worth wrecking a lovely boat trip over.

Michael laughed and cleared his throat. "What a pretentious asshole, right?"

Alex shook himself back to the present and out of his suspicions. "What the hell are you reading?"

Michael nudged his leg affectionately. "It's something Max gave me. For some reason, he thought I'd like reading Ginsberg and Kerouac puff up each other's egos by way of their pen pal letters."

Alex chuckled again at Michael's eye roll and reached out his hand.

"Let me see."

Michael bent to pick up the book and brushed his hand against Alex's fingers as he handed it over. Even though he braced himself, the touch still caused a shiver up his arm. To hide his reaction, Alex quickly flipped the book open and chose another reading. The words practically leapt off the page at him.

"_If all the world were green, there would be no such thing as the colour green. Similarly, men cannot know what it is to be together without otherwise knowing what it is to be apart. If all the world were love, then, how could love exist? This is why we turn away from each other on moments of great happiness and closeness. How can we know happiness and closeness without contrasting them, like lights_?"

"Huh," Alex muttered. He could feel Michael watching him.

"Think that was our problem?" Michael's normally smooth voice sounded gravelly, like the words were hard to get out.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "I think the world was our problem. That, and not talking."

"What do you mean? We talked."

Alex burst out laughing, rocking the boat from side to side. "No, we didn't. You're thinking of something else we did with our mouths - similar, but different."

"Yeah, ok," Michael chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "You may have a point."

They fell silent and he watched Michael chew at his bottom lip.

"So, what about now?"

Michael looked surprised. "What, you mean talk now?"

"Yeah," Alex shrugged back. "We're not doing anything else."

"Well, I for one am learning TONS about pretentious literature."

Alex laughed again, but recognized the deflection for what it was. It was, after all, Michael's favourite trick when trying to avoid getting too close, too serious. He hadn't changed so much from high school, but Alex had. He wasn't shy about trying to push past those boundaries anymore.

"Come on, Guerin. I'm serious."

After a long breath, Michael sighed and looked up through his lashes. "Yeah. Ok. What do you wanna talk about?"

Funny how when presented with an opportunity, it was hard to narrow down, he thought. Alex suddenly didn't know what to say. So he just threw out the first thing that came to mind.

"What did you want to be, when you grew up?"

"What?"

"You know, when you were a kid. Did you imagine being a fireman or a doctor or what?"

Michael's face twisted and his eyes dropped. And Alex was almost certain he wouldn't answer. But then his lips turned up in a smirk.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy. Or that the whole universe is crazy."

This whole scenario is crazy, Alex thought to himself.

"Try me."

Michael sighed and ran his hands through his curls. "I wanted to be a soldier."

Alex's whole body jerked and he coughed when his lungs forgot how to breathe.

"See? Told you."

Alex sat up slowly, his knees pressing on the inside of Michaels legs in the small boat.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, shit." Michael paused and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. "Look, because of how I grew up? It makes some sense, I guess. To a kid, soldiers are tough and brave. They stick up for people and protect people. And they travel the world…"

At Alex's sour look, Michael hastened to add "…in a manner of speaking."

He didn't even want to think of all the dank places he'd been in service of his country. Certainly not the kind of world travelling people dreamed about.

"But you're so… anti-organized anything!"

Michael sighed again. "I just wanted out of my shitty foster home. And all the shows I watched made it seem like the military, whatever branch, was a family and had your back and all that. "

At Alex's incredulous look, Michael actually blushed a little.

"What? I was a stupid kid. Plus, you know, it would have been nice back then to be able to physically protect myself."

Alex's heart ached thinking of a young Michael, alone and vulnerable, shifted from house to house.

"And it's ironic, considering…"

There was a tone that brought Alex's eyes up. "Considering?"

Michael gave him a long look, apparently struggling with how much to say. "Considering that you became one."

Right. Alex nodded, but he wasn't convinced Michael was telling him the whole story - which was also very familiar.

"So, your turn." Michael slouched back, resuming his casual attitude. "You always want to be a good little soldier like your dad?"

There was venom in his words, but Alex knew that there was nothing to say to ease Michael's hatred.

"No, not even close."

Michael just raised an eyebrow and leaned back further, prepared to wait for the punchline. Alex fidgeted under his gaze.

"When I was little I, uh… I wanted to be Superman." He chuckled at the memory. It was such a normal, little kid thing, to want to be his favourite superhero. After all he'd seen and done, it was hard to remember ever being so innocent.

"Hero complex, then?" Michael's words had a bite, but his eyes were soft.

"No. I just thought it would be cool to fly; to leave the ground and go wherever I wanted."

At Michael's scoff, Alex tried to convince him. "Oh, you've never dreamed of flying? Of soaring over cities and mountains? No gravity, no limits?"

He could tell his enthusiasm was falling on deaf ears, and he suddenly felt foolish. With his hands clasped between his knees he mumbled "I've always wanted to fly, but all the other superpowers would have been nice too."

"Trust me. Alien beings with superpowers wouldn't be received as well in the real world."

Alex wasn't expecting Michael's hard voice. It was a strong reaction to a silly conversation, and Alex took note. But Michael's expression warned him not to delve any deeper. They both sat silent for a spell, looking out at the lake, the sunlight bouncing off ripples and turning the surface into a million dull sparkles.

And this was why they didn't talk, Alex thought morosely.

"But you got your wish, didn't you? I mean, you're an Airman. Don't you fly things? Planes?"

Alex shook his head. "No. Apparently I have 'less than acceptable' depth perception at night. Not that I ever would have known it. It came up on a test when I was already six months in. So that was that."

Michael exhaled, long and slow. "Geez, Alex. That's shitty, man. I'm sorry."

It was nice that Michael seemed to understand the gravity of it, but Alex had long ago let go of his disappointment. Well, mostly. He just shrugged at Michael's apology.

"So, what do you do in the Air Force?"

"I'm an aeronautical robotics engineer."

Michael's eyebrows popped. "That sounds… interesting? Impressive, I meant impressive."

"It does, right?" Alex rolled his eyes. "But really, I fix broken drones that someone else crashes, or that get blown off course or hit by cross fire."

It wasn't a complete lie. He did fix them. He also heavily modified them, and reprogrammed them. He was often the one flying them as well. And sometimes they were intercepting and broadcasting data, not just taking pictures…

Michael's laugh startled him. "So you're a mechanic, like I am. Well, isn't that a coincidence?"

Alex smiled over the itch in his brain that held back classified information. He'd been lying and hiding for so long, he almost didn't notice it anymore. But sometimes, he thought, it would be nice to actually be honest about what he did, and the impact it made to the war effort.

"It's not, like, my dream job – but it's something," Alex shrugged. "In high school, I knew I wasn't good enough to make it as a musician. But I thought maybe I could be a music journalist, or a reviewer or something."

Michael's hand came to rest on Alex's knee and he felt the heat of it through his jeans. "But that wasn't your dad's plan."

Alex sighed. "Nope. It was the family business, or bust."

The conversation fell away again as they both remembered the circumstances around Alex's decision to enlist, but this break was more comfortable. Alex concentrated on the feeling of Michael's thumb rubbing over his kneecap and closed his eyes.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for how I left."

Michael's fingers tightened for a second, but then relaxed again. "It's ok."

"It isn't," Alex insisted, hoping that Michael would tell him how he really felt about it. But he just stayed quiet, and Alex sighed to clear the air.

"New topic?"

Michael grunted in agreement and lazily closed his eyes against the sun.

"What are the chances you'll agree to answer anything I ask, if I agree to do the same for you?"

Alex held his breath while Michael contemplated.

"Do I have to answer truthfully?" he asked with a smirk, still hiding behind his eyelids.

"I will if you will."

Alex's heart tripped when Michael opened his eyes. There was something hot underneath when he looked at him. Attraction, anger, arousal, resentment – Alex wasn't quite sure what it was. Maybe it changed, depending. He also wasn't sure if it was unsettling or magnetic.

"Ok, Private," he drawled. "I'll even let you go first."

Alex noticed that Michael's posture changed subtly, his shoulders rolling back and his spine relaxing into a slouch. The cowboy swagger was back, a defensive wall against the unknown questions in Alex's head, and it made him sad. When they were teenagers, he'd always been granted access to the real Michael – the one who was vulnerable and scared and shy sometimes. Back then, he'd known he didn't have to put up a front around Alex, that he was safe without it. But it had been a long time, for both of them. After ten years, Alex had developed his own walls and defenses, too.

Better to start easy, he thought. Take those walls down brick by brick rather than risk getting crushed by them.

"Favourite movie?"

Michael didn't hesitate. "Cool Hand Luke."

It seemed like a reasonable choice, but he could see Michael's left eye twitching.

Alex kicked his chin up. "What's the real answer?"

Michael smirked, knowing he'd be caught in the lie. "Caddyshack."

"That was a test," Alex laughed. "Because I'm pretty sure I already knew that."

"And I already know yours, unless you've completely changed personalities in the last decade."

He very likely did know, and Alex rolled his eyes.

"Jurassic Park!" they both called out at the same time.

Michael grinned so big Alex thought his cheeks must be hurting. "SUCH a dinosaur nerd!"

They laughed over one another, the noise echoing out over the lake.

"Hey," Alex said softly, after they'd calmed down. "I've gotta know. Did you plan on kissing me when you came to visit me at work that first time?"

Michael sobered up quickly, but had a fond look of remembrance in his eyes.

"Fuck, no. I panicked."

"What?" Alex chuckled, unable to imagine Michael panicking over anything in the world.

Michael groaned and slouched even further, tipping his head back until his curls nearly brushed the water.

"I didn't have a plan at all, to be honest. I just knew I wanted to see you and try to fix whatever I'd messed up. There was… distance, between us, after you brought me that guitar, and I hated it."

"Oh." Alex got the sinking feeling that maybe their whole relationship, if you could call it that, was just an accident. Had he somehow pushed Michael into being with him? His heart started to pound uncomfortably, but Michael, seeing the stricken look on his face, was quick to explain.

"I mean, I went there with the idea that I'd apologize, and try to smooth things over. But then you were standing there in front of me, and—"

"And what?" Alex hadn't meant to sound so bitter, but if this was where Michael told him he kissed him as an apology, or out of some misguided sense of sympathy, he would much rather jump overboard.

Michael sighed and leaned forward, reaching out to wrap his hand around the back of Alex's neck, drawing him up closer.

"And all of a sudden, the feeling I'd been struggling with since we started hanging out became clear."

Alex swallowed loudly and Michael's eyes darted down to his lips.

"And I couldn't _not_ kiss you."

Alex sighed in pleasure when Michael's lips finally touched his. The wet slide was decadent and slow, like they had all the time in the world. Michael took the lead, as usual, and Alex was happy to let himself be kissed senseless. When he ran his tongue along Alex's bottom lip, there was no hesitation. Alex let him in and welcomed the invasion. He was overwhelmed by sensation, but when he would have pulled back for breath or pushed forward to take things to the next level, Michael kept his pace. The kiss balanced the fine edge between sweetness and desperate anticipation. It existed on a dreamlike plane where time was an abstract concept. Did they kiss for five minutes or five days? Alex honestly wasn't sure. But when Michael was that close, his breath and smell and the feel of his hands were all Alex needed to survive.

And he kept pushing closer, up into Alex's personal space, until he was pressed back into the bow of the boat with Michael hovering over him. The minute his back hit the blanket, Alex felt drowsy. Their makeout session certainly had him feeling plush and logy, but this was stronger. He couldn't keep his eyes open. Panic rushed down his veins and he panted in fear. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he felt Michael ease between his legs, resting his head on Alex's chest.

"Just rest, babe."

"But I want…" Alex protested feebly.

"I know. But there's no rush. It's alright."

Alex fought against the sluggish darkness taking his mind over. Why was consciousness slipping away from him against his will? He wanted to stay in this place and keep kissing Michael forever.

"I've got you. You're safe."

Michael's voice was all around him, inside him. His heart slowed its frantic pace, but only just.

"Stay," was the only word he could get out, begging Michael not to leave him alone.

"It's ok, Alex, just let go. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

He couldn't let this perfect scene fade into nothing. It was everything he'd ever wanted. It was better than the desperate dreams he'd had while hunkered down behind a broken building all night, the bullets whizzing past and splintering on the brick wall behind him. It was better than the daydreams he'd had in History class, when Michael was the only thing he could concentrate on.

He whimpered, the only action left to him, but Michael understood. Alex felt the weight of Michael's hand on his chest, resting warmly over his heart.

"Shh, just relax. I'll be here when you wake up, Private. I promise."

Alex took a shuddering breath and stopped fighting. It was ok. Alex knew he wouldn't be alone when he woke up. Because Michael never made a promise he wouldn't keep. Never.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I have so much trepidation about tomorrow's episode. Sadly, these two won't be getting a mushy reunion in my fic before then. But it's coming - because I am nothing if not a sucker for a happy ending. Thanks for your kind reviews. I'm happy to read each one.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Roswell, New Mexico**_**, nor any of the characters.**

Tues. March 6, 2018

Michael put the two folding lawn chairs in the back of his truck and surveyed the spot where he'd 'lived' for the last 7 years. Watching the dirt appear from under his trailer for the first time in forever had been bittersweet. But hell, his home had wheels under it for just this reason; so he could be free to go wherever he wanted, whenever the mood struck him. And yesterday, it had struck hard.

It started off the same as every other day for the past week. He woke early, poured himself a thermos of strong coffee, and threw a lunch together. The bag of books from Max's was still in his front seat, so he had all he needed. The drive to the hospital felt like it was getting longer with each trip. His anticipation to see Alex every day was getting more desperate. And after no measurable change in his condition, Michael had allowed himself to consider the worst case scenario.

But he couldn't think about that now.

When he'd arrived, the nurse's station was empty. He had gotten used to the nodded greeting from Nurse Thompson. Her replacement on Sunday had even less personality, and hadn't even looked up at him as he entered. Against all odds, he was starting to have a sense of comfort and familiarity in the ward. The hospital smell and equipment still made his insides shake, but as with any fear, repeated exposure had dulled the sharp edges of his terror.

He couldn't stop the quick shudder of his stomach, however, when he rounded the corner into Alex's room and found it full of people. Nurse Thompson was there, along with two men; doctors, neither of whom Michael had seen before. They were conferring over the chart from the foot of the bed, and the nurse was monitoring one of the machines closely.

"What's going on?" He didn't recognize his own voice, it was so brittle.

All three heads turned to him as one.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" the tall, blonde doctor asked, looking down his nose.

Michael was struck dumb. Who was he to Alex, really? He couldn't say what he wanted to, what he felt in his bones about their strong tether to each other. His brain was sifting through the possible lies when Nurse Thompson spoke up.

"He's Airman Manes' cousin. The rest of the family isn't able to be here."

He blinked at the woman's quick thinking and confident tone, frankly shocked that she would stand up for him. Greeting nods and occasional trite conversations aside, she didn't know him from Adam.

"Oh," the doctor sighed. "Very well, then. Mr. Manes seems to have an infection."

Michael flushed cold and his fingers tingled. While he had never been sick, he knew that infections were the real danger after surgery. In his panic, he suddenly had a million questions, and no firm thoughts at all. The second doctor, from India if he had to guess, cleared his throat.

"We're not sure if it's from the amputation or his other, internal injuries. His fever was quite high last night, but a different antibiotic seems to be helping."

Michael tried to keep his panting subtle. "How high?"

The man tapped his pen on the clipboard. "Dangerously so, apparently, for a couple of hours. 104.5. I understand it was touch and go around 3:00am, but we have him stabilized now."

Later, Michael would let himself rage inside at how nonchalant the doctor sounded when discussing Alex's health.

Michael reached out for the handrail running along the side of the room. The floor was starting to pitch at an angle and he wasn't completely sure he could stay upright. Alex had nearly died. Alone. And Michael hadn't been there because he was back in Roswell.

"Thanks, Thompson," the blonde one offered as his parting thought. "Let me know if there are any issues." The two doctors drifted out of the room in their white coats and scrubs while discussing another patient they had yet to see, but Michael couldn't give a shit.

He was going to be sick, he thought, looking wildly for a garbage can when the attached bathroom seemed much too far away. The room was swirling and sparkling around the edges, and Michael couldn't catch a whole breath. As his vision started to blacken, a strong hand gripped his upper arm and swiveled him into the guest chair.

"Sit down before you fall down. I don't have time to triage a concussion this morning."

When he was sitting, the nurse pushed on his shoulder until he was doubled over, staring at the floor from between his knees.

"Just breathe," she ordered. "It will pass."

He struggled to take in a shaky inhale, counting the blue speckles in the linoleum floor. After a few more breaths, the lightheaded feeling eased but his heart was still pounding.

"You ok now?" she asked in a distracted way.

He tried nodding but it wasn't much. Still, she let up on his shoulder and he unfolded from his pretzel position.

"Thanks."

She just cleared her throat and squeak-walked out into the hall, leaving Michael shaking and swallowing dryly. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled nice and slow, tilting his head back to stare at the water stain on the ceiling. Shit, he really needed to get a hold of himself before furniture started floating around.

What would he do if Alex died while he wasn't here? His impulse was to just barricade himself in the room and not leave, ever. The thought of Alex being alone at the end was worse than the thought of him dying. And he wasn't sure how that made sense, but in his fuzzy brain right then, it did.

He reached out to take Alex's hand, trying not to think about why his fingers felt hot and dry.

"You can't die on me. You hear me, Alex?" His harsh whisper sounded like sandpaper. "And if you do have to go, I'll be here with you. I promise you won't have to be alone." He bowed his head to the bed and pressed his forehead to the back of Alex's hand.

Just keep breathing.

He wasn't sure if the mantra was for him or for Alex, but he kept repeating it as his heartbeat tripped and slowed. And after the panic retreated, left-over adrenaline filled him up. He had to be here, to be close by, in case something happened. He spent the rest of the morning silently going over plans to do just that, rubbing his thumb over Alex's fingernails in sequence, pinky to thumb. Over and over.

Just before lunch, plan set in his head, he ignored his stiff muscles and pushed up out of the chair.

"Nurse Thompson?" he called as he approached the circular desk. She turned and he put on his most charming smile.

"Hi. I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Michael Guerin."

She stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment before taking it.

"Private First Class Rebecca Thompson."

He chewed on his lip, trying to figure out how to ask for what he wanted, which was a lot.

"So, it was bad, last night?"

"I wasn't on shift," she hedged, "but yes. His fever spiked unexpectedly, and he was very lucky the doctor on call chose the right antibiotic on the first guess."

Michael exhaled again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Shit. Good to know we're down to guesses."

She stiffened. "Mr. Guerin, if you're implying that the hospital is in any way negligent—"

"No." He held out his hands, placating. "No, that's not what I meant. I'm just saying that it's scary to know that medicine can still be about gut feelings and good calls, that's all."

She huffed and straightened her green scrub top. "Oh. Well, sorry."

"No worries. You guys are taking good care of him. I know that."

He traced his finger over the swirled pattern on the countertop, trying and failing to be smooth.

"But the thought of him... leaving," he ground out, "while I'm not here. I just can't…"

Michael stopped, hating the quiver in his voice. He hated letting anyone see the soft parts of him. But he needed a favour, and maybe it was worth the price.

"I was wondering, if you could call me, if something happens—"

"You're not next of kin." Her voice was all procedure and chain of command, with no room for sort-of-boyfriends who camped out at hospital bedsides.

"I know that. But his family isn't here."

Her lips thinned into a grim line. "It doesn't matter. Our policy states that—"

"They're not here, Thompson." God, he was trying to hold his temper. The reasons Jesse Manes wasn't here watching over his youngest son made him want to tear things apart with his bare hands. He mostly wanted to tear the man himself to shreds. But that wouldn't help anything here and now.

"Mr. Guerin—"

"Michael." He tried his best smile again, the genuine one he saved for very special occasions.

"Michael, I'd like to help you, but…"

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I know who's on his list of family contacts. His brothers are all deployed, probably overseas, and his father doesn't give a shit what happens to Alex. He'd probably be relieved if he really did…"

He couldn't finish the thought, but the paleness on Thompson's face meant she'd gotten the message.

"Has the Master Sergeant even visited his son since he's been here?"

Thompson held his glare without blinking.

"Yes, only once, when he first arrived."

He grimaced, imagining how that interaction had gone. "And you didn't have to look at Alex's visitor's record to know that, so I'm guessing he made an impression."

Thompson glanced to her left and right, quietly checking for eavesdroppers, before leaning marginally across the desk. "He wasn't a pleasant person."

"Yup," he answered, popping the P. "That's Alex's dad for you."

He took a quick peek and saw that her eyes had softened just a little. Time to get real.

"I just don't want him to be alone. Alex and I have known each other since high school and we've been through a lot. We've been through a lot together. And I can't keep my promise and do right by him if I don't know to be here when something happens in the middle of the night."

The nurse breathed out through her nose and nibbled on her bottom lip, considering. And Michael knew he had her.

"All I'm asking is that someone call me. I don't even have to be the first call. But I'm damned sure that no one else will come running."

She let him wait a few breathless moments for it, before finally nodding. "Ok."

"Yeah?" he breathed. "I don't want to get you in trouble."

Thompson shrugged and moved over to her keyboard, tapping quickly to open Alex's records. "We add other contacts sometimes; usually COs that want to be kept up to date, or other people from their squadron. But generally not civilians."

She looked up with an eyebrow raised. "What would you like me to put as your relationship to the patient?"

Well, wasn't that the question of the century? Michael rubbed at the headache between his eyebrows that was starting to blossom outwards. How could he give a name to this whatever-relationship they had after nearly a decade apart, let alone one that was suitable for permanent hospital records?

"Close personal friend?" he chanced, feeling like a fool.

Her eyebrows popped, but she kept typing. "I think it's safer to stick with cousin, if it's all the same to you. Not that there's anything wrong with the Airman having a close personal friend. But it'll raise less questions if they need to phone you."

Michael blushed and nodded, agreeing with her logic. He recited his phone number and watched as she saved the information.

"Thank you."

Nurse Thompson actually graced him with a soft smile as she finished up and squirted the mandated hand sanitizer into her palm.

"I'm glad Mr. Manes has a close personal friend to care about him." She cocked her hip against the desk and crossed her arms. "After meeting his father, I would imagine he needs the support."

"You have no idea." Michael sighed and started back to Alex's room.

"Will you be nearby? If we call, I mean?"

He smiled to himself and looked back over his shoulder. "I'm working on it. Hopefully not more than 10 minutes away.

And so, that was how he found himself packing up the last of his meagre belongings on a cool Tuesday morning and casting a wistful glance over the expanse of Foster Homestead Ranch. He knew it wasn't goodbye forever. This place would inevitably draw him back at some point. But the leaving, and the reasons behind it, seemed momentous in the history of his life.

After many phone calls from Alex's hospital room, he'd found a place to park the Airstream only a few miles down the road. It had a power hookup and little else, but he didn't care. The spot was in the fenced yard of an auto-wrecker, and he was welcome to park there as long as he acted as something of a night watchman. They'd had problems with teenagers who lived on the base, breaking in and vandalizing things overnight. Mel Foster had even given him a reference on short notice.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and got behind the wheel, adjusting the rear-view mirror so it didn't show him the crash site. He was sad, yes, but also relieved he would soon be sleeping that much closer to Alex. With his cowboy hat riding shotgun in the passenger seat, he pulled out below the big ranch sign.

He quickly saw the cloud moving down the driveway towards him. Out here, the dust always gave away approaching cars. It would be Mel, probably, hoping to catch him before he left. The man had demons of his own, but Michael called him a friend of sorts. He slowed and pulled to the right, careful to keep the trailer upright along the shoulder. But the car approaching at high speed wasn't Mel's pickup.

Isobel's silver BMW coasted around the corner, sliding on loose red gravel. Michael rolled his eyes at the spectacle. Leave it to Is to make such a dramatic entrance, somehow upstaging his departure. He slowed and watched as the car skidded to a stop, diagonally across the road surface. But to his surprise, it wasn't Isobel that exploded out of the driver's seat.

Max looked like an angry silverback, all puffed up in the chest and full of righteous indignation. His long legs ate up the distance between them, bearing down on Michael's truck. Damn, he thought, so much for a quiet exit. He climbed out of his truck slowly, steeling himself against the upcoming onslaught and put on his time-tested mask of indifference and snark.

"Where the hell do you think you're going? You leaving without so much as a goodbye?" Max's voice was like being hit by a brick wall, and Michael was rocked backwards a fraction. The hair on his arms stood on end, reacting to the excess electrical energy surrounding Max.

In the quiet after his outburst, Michael saw Isobel slink out of the passenger side, watching the interaction warily. She obviously hadn't kept his secret very well.

"That's kind of the brilliance of a home on wheels, Max. I get to go where the wind takes me." Michael leaned against his fender and hooked his thumbs in his front pockets.

"And where is it taking you today?"

Michael smirked. "Away from here and closer to something else."

Max growled and made like he would tear his own hair out in frustration.

"And good, you're here so I don't have to get these back to you." Michael rounded the truck and reached through the passenger window to pull out the bag of books he'd been carting around. They landed with a thud at Max's feet.

"What the hell? You stole these from my house?"

"Borrowed," Michael said slowly, sounding out the letters like Max was a toddler. "You should get better locks. I'm just sayin'."

Max looked like he was seconds away from exploding, but Michael was pleased to see Isobel giggle.

"God fucking DAMMIT, Michael!" Max bellowed, his face mottling red. "You never change." He shook his head, disgusted, and Michael felt the familiar twist in his gut at meeting Max's lowest expectations.

"I really don't, Max. Who I am used to be fine with you, you remember? You used to like me fine just the way I was. But now I'm a big disappointment, an embarrassment to the deputy."

Max sucked in a breath to argue, but Michael just held up his hand.

"Forget it. I actually thought you'd be happy to see the back of me. I won't be waiting in the drunk tank anymore for you to let me out. And please, spare me. I don't have time for a lecture right now. I have somewhere else I've gotta be."

The anger bled out of Max as quickly as it burst. "Seriously, Michael. Where are you going?"

Michael bit his lower lip and sighed up at the blue sky. "Somewhere I need to be. Just leave it at that." He shrugged, like it was no big deal, but at his core he knew that Max would never understand. And honestly, he didn't have the energy to get into all the reveals required to explain.

Isobel stepped forward finally, tears in her eyes. "You keep in touch, you hear? We're just a phone call away."

Michael pulled her into a hug and she fisted the back of his denim jacket.

"Oh, sure. Isobel knows where you're going!" Max paced around in a circle, muttering about how he was always the last to know things in their messed-up little family.

"Isobel generally doesn't yell at me. At least, not lately." Michael squeezed her tighter when she laugh-sobbed into his shoulder.

He was surprised when he felt a big hand on his arm.

"Are you ok? I mean, is there anything you need? Anything I can—"

"I'm good." Michael nodded, pulling Max into their huddle. "I have a promise to keep to someone."

Max raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. His expression remained stony and displeased.

"Geez, man. Would you lighten up? I'm not dying. I won't be gone forever."

"How long?"

Michael smirked at the resignation in Max's voice. "Not sure. Few weeks? Few months?"

"Dammit," he breathed, giving Michael a look that made him think perhaps he and Max could patch their relationship, given enough time. But he didn't have any of that right now. He was already late to get to the hospital, and he had to stop at the wrecker's yard first.

Michael untangled himself from Isobel and Max and backed up a step. "I gotta go."

The only family he'd ever known held hands and watched as he turned and walked back to his truck. Once inside, he leaned out the open window.

"Could ya move that piece of European trash so I can get by?"

Max smiled, in spite of himself, and Isobel started crying. It wasn't a shock to either of them. She had always been a drama queen, and Michael leaving town was her worst nightmare come true.

They drove along side him, passing slowly. Both men extended their arms out the window, brushing fingertips like they had as children on the slide outside the group home.

Isobel was beside herself, and Max's eyes were suspiciously wet.

"Save travels, Michael."

He smirked, giving them both an outrageous wink.

"I'll be seeing you."


End file.
